So many tigers become used to humansand their unfathomable fingers, every digitindependent to the lastbut choosing to move in tandem,first thumb then pointer, as if each actionhas a mind thinking of meat andits coolness, this evening as you walk to the bar:enclosed on all sides coveredwith images of a tiger’s predecessors rivalingand stupid for touch or at least its fierceness,burst further beyond the foggy glass and drunksthat force you to couragewhile they wait with empty hands for you to filltheir fear unmade into powerful running muscle,by jungle-breaths and the religion of prey,that finds the urban roadwhere you watch yourself prowl.

the thaw. every last winter run like fish oil,mandarin peel burnt into knees wherethere was once a goddess

with red hair and inkstone teeth –swallowed newborns cupped in her netof rind; not broken, but breaking

from the seas. i can hear nothing butgaps, which we dashed like soapstatues ofnaked children glassy-eyed with

blood, and she chokes out the thingsliquescent words can’t touch, riverlipsopened thirsty for a girl to hide

A Foyle Young Poet, Annie Fan's most recent work is either stuck to the fridge or published in Transect, sleepingfish ∞, Ambit, and the Blueshift Journal where it was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She is a prose editor at TRACK//FOUR.